


Miles to Go

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-03
Updated: 2008-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then in the middle of it all there’s a voice, the one he wasn’t expecting, not yet. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles to Go

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:**  [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[ **evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/)  _swears_ she turned the TV down long enough to read it.
> 
> The world may never run out of post-eps to _Wilson's Heart_. Spoilers, etc.

Eventually, he sleeps.

It’s one of the most difficult things in the world on a hospital bed, but mental and physical exhaustion combine to overpower him. Sleep is less peaceful than death. There are strange, unformed nightmares filled with confusion and screaming, although nothing he can remember clearly. Except for the bus, which despite his best intentions is still ever-present in the periphery of his vision. From the outside its windows are frosted opaque, the cold light casting no shadows, and he knows instinctively that Amber has already gone. Wherever she’s going. This one - or the same one, who knows? - is just sitting there empty, idling. In case… in case he should change his mind. He supposes it's been there, in one form or another, so many times in his life he can’t remember them all.

And then in the middle of it all there’s a voice, the one he wasn’t expecting, not yet. At first he’s not sure whether it’s just a new, guilt-edged dimension to his nightmares.

“House,” it says, and he hears it even in the depths of unconsciousness, follows it unquestioningly up to the surface where he can almost see wakefulness, like sunlight through water. “Just… stay like that,” it warns him, and he obeys, slowing his breathing, keeping his eyes closed. For once, he doesn’t demand explanations.

There is a long silence, and then a small creak of castors as something is gently moved aside, a little to his left. It’s then that he realizes Cuddy is no longer here, that he’s alone, defenseless. He tenses, and his heart races despite his best efforts at drowsiness. He’s half-expecting a pillow over the face, or the sting of a fatal hypodermic in his arm - maybe the decision won’t be left up to him, after all. They're ridiculous, childish thoughts that will go away the minute he opens his eyes. But he doesn’t want to do that either, because the reality could well be worse than any of his morbid fantasies. Instead, he waits. But the moments go by uneventfully, and slowly his adrenaline rush drains away. Only then can he hear the slightly ragged breathing beside him, the near-silent struggle for control.

“It’s almost like… like I’m cursed,” the voice says, finally, from somewhere far above him. House can almost _feel_ it now, the gaze passing over his face, leaving his skin involuntarily reddening with shame in its wake.

“I always lose them, one way or another,” the voice continues. Its tone is tight, unforgiving. “Everyone I…” In the spinning out of the silence he can hear the hum of the air conditioning, the muted beeps that serve as a reminder of his own undeserved existence. The voice shakes a little, but recovers and goes on. “Everyone I love.”

He misses the dreams now. Whatever they were, they must have been better than this. He wants nothing more than to sink back into unconsciousness, but his body and mind refuse to cooperate. Then there’s the press of a hand over his own, so unexpected he almost startles, shockingly warm in the coldness of the room. It tightens briefly to the point of pain, of punishment, holding him fast to his own conscience. Still, his eyes remain shut, and no sound escapes him. Just as quickly, the hand releases him, but he can still feel the faint traces of pressure on his skin.

“But you...” the voice says quietly, as though it knows the depths of his cowardice, and maybe it does. “You always come back.”

The voice is flat, neither consoling nor accusing. It simply _is_ , and maybe that has to be enough. Before he can say anything, the hand, the voice, and the presence are gone. He opens his eyes just in time to see a rumpled glimpse of gray sweatshirt and blue jeans disappearing from view along the corridor.

It takes a long time, but in the end he sleeps again. And the dreams are still bad. But for now it seems that the bus has moved on.


End file.
